Sunlit Riffles and Shadowed Runs

Stories of Fly Fishing in America

Kent Cowgill

Publication Year: 2012

Ranging from the riotously comic to the nostalgic, edgy, and suspenseful, these sixteen stories offer richly developed and engaging portraits of characters across the spectrum of life, all absorbed by the thrill of fly fishing. A marriage betrayal on a trout stream in the north woods, a young boy&rsquo;s coming of age as a fly fisherman in the Black Hills of South Dakota, angler rage on the redfish flats of the Gulf of Mexico, an epic quest for bullish rainbows in Montana&rsquo;s celebrated Bighorn, the quiet mystique of Wisconsin&rsquo;s Brule River, the intensity of combat fishing on a salmon pool in the Pacific Northwest, these are just a few of the fascinating tales of fly fishing offered in Sunlit Riffles and Shadowed Runs. Rendered in sparkling prose that will resonate with every angler, this collection will also delight any reader who enjoys outdoor pastimes.

Cover

Title Page, Copyright

Contents

Acknowledgments

Any fly fisher
who is honest,
if that’s
not an oxymoron,
is indebted
to far
too many people
to count. The same is true, perhaps
even truer, of one
who writes.
With sincere
apologies
to the many big-hearted individuals
whom space constraints
have not let me mention
here, I want to thank
the following
for their friendship...

Day of Mourning

The coffin
had been laid to rest with such dispatch
its burnished
image lingered
on in the mind’s
eye, the russet
wood glazed
with
sunlight,
the varnish
on its bevels
gleaming
with a lustrous
sheen.
The widow approached
us in the reception
hall a few minutes
later,
long limbed
and shapely
beneath
her black...

Two Men in a Museum

None of his paintings
work for me,” the woman said, her finger
pointing
at a winding
band of silver
running
diagonally
across
a background
that looked
to her husband
like a thick stand of pine.
“It’s basically
a trick, trying
to obscure
how labored
and derivative
the
naturalism
is by imposing
this abstract
pewter...

Valentine

This is a story about longing
and isolation.
Desperation.
About the
things
they can lead you to do, or almost
do, when they run high
in your blood. It could possibly
have happened
anywhere.
That it
happened
in Nebraska
will surprise
no one who has ever driven
alone
across
the state in the month...

The Conception

The boy could smell the pines before
he saw them. Or he thought
he
could. Cramped
in the back seat between
the sweating
thighs
of
his older brothers,
he caught
only glimpses
of the dark jagged
line rising
out of the miles of plain still ahead of them—said nothing
of what had
swelled
for minutes
in his...

Anglinguistics

I had a really
lucky thing happen
to me this morning,”
my wife
announced
from the far end of the table.
We were in the “How did your day go” beginning
of dinner.
“Oh
yeah?” I responded
half-
listening, munching
my salad.
She stared
at me for several
seconds
before
going...

Spanish Fly

"Call me Pedro.”
The words seemed
innocent
enough
at the time, merely
the
latest
of his harmless
quirks,
like his taste for flamenco
music and the
occasional
pitcher
of sangria.
But they loom now, looking
back, as Pete
Smith’s
private
Niagara—
the moment
he went over...

Rage

They had come off the water an hour earlier
still fuming.
“Those goddamned
sonsabitches,”
the realtor
swore. “I’d have
coldcocked
that motherfucker
driving
if we could have chased
him
down.”
The doctor
said nothing,
bit back the remains
of his own anger with
another
salty sip from his...

The Devil’s Arse

The state isn’t important,
nor is the year or the name of the river.
Say simply
that the celebrated
water I had driven
halfway
across
America
to fish is in the West, the time was several
years ago, and the
river’s
trico hatches
in recent
years had become
so famed they’d
begun
to draw insufferable
hordes...

Fly

"Isn’t that thing like hunting
a tiger with a switch?”
“It sure feels like it today.”
The river flowed
down to the Oregon
coast, the slate-
dark pool just
above its mouth ringed
with spin fishermen.
Their casting
was so intent
they appeared
oblivious
to the waves crashing
onto the beach barely
a
stone’s
throw...

The FÜLODOG

My name’s
Cooper.
I mention
that at the outset
because
I’m the
only one of our foursome
without
a nickname,
unless
“Coop”
qualifies
as such. The way we met is one of those bizarre
scenarios
that
happen
in life about as often as winning
the lottery.
For the four of us
were—remain—
as outwardly
unmatched
and ill suited...

Last Cast

He had worn the vest for almost
fifty years. Half a century.
Worn it
so often and so long only a few crinkled
tangles
remained
on the
wool patch and the once-
tawny cloth had darkened
with fly floatant
and sweat. He held it briefly
in his gnarled
hands before
shrugging
it on
over his shoulders,
the satisfying
weight...

Coachmen

It was a Saturday
morning
in February
when the telephone
rang as I
was chipping
ice off my doorstep.
Dropping
the shovel,
I shucked
my Sorels
and padded
inside
to answer
it.
“C’gradulations, ol’ buddy,” the caller
drawled.
“You’ve just been
picked
by the Root Valley
Reelmen.
Fourth
round of the ’naugural
Cat...

Indian Summer

He lurched
down the lane in a euphoric
daze, half-
blinded by the
October
light. Fumbling
in his vest for his sunglasses,
he was a
hundred
yards from his car before
the torn, empty pockets
registered
and he paused,
shaking
his head...

Labor Day

Thanks to the end-
of-summer holiday,
they have a three-
day week-end.
Time off from her work at the county
courthouse
before
his
classes
start in the fall. Time to finally
“get away together,”
as they’d
long
falsely
promised
each other they wanted
to do. What’s
been missing
is
trust, from each of them, and both...

The Rod

Just below the sloping
lawn, down on the lake, a small boat is trolling
for walleyes.
The pair of shirt-
sleeved fishermen
are seated.
When
the boat turns, retraces
its course,
their lines glint briefly
in the sun.
The woman sitting
alone on her deck continues
to gaze at them, at
the shimmering
water. Several
years earlier,
pressed
by her husband...

Season’s End

The township
road bends sharply
away from the highway,
curls past
the rusting
cages of an abandoned
mink farm, then drops into the
valley
alongside
the stream.
On the final day of September,
the last of
the season,
the angler
peers anxiously
through
the rain-
streaked windshield
to get a first look at the water...

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